


When it Rains, It Pours

by teaandjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealous!Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John starts dating Victor Trevor because, in John's mind, Victor is an attainable version of Sherlock. Cue crazy, jealous, petulant Sherlock.</p><p> <i>When John first meets Victor Trevor, the man is doing something amazing; he is making Sherlock Holmes laugh. The kind of deep-bellied laugh that John thought he was solely capable of bringing out from the detective.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When John first meets Victor Trevor, the man is doing something amazing; he is making Sherlock Holmes laugh. The kind of deep-bellied laugh that John thought he was solely capable of bringing out from the detective. Judging by the low tenor of the man’s voice, what he's saying is crude and that too is surprising.  
  
The man is sitting in John's chair, perched back, ankle resting on his leg.  
  
John has just returned from a rugby match with Lestrade and some of the lads from the Yard. He is covered in grass stains and mud and hopes to sneak upstairs for a quick shower before having to exchange pleasantries. He is lingering by the kitchen's entrance, ready to retreat when Sherlock, his eyes never leaving Victor, calls out to him.  
  
John curses and approaches the two men. He runs a hand through his hair and takes in all of Victor Trevor. He is slightly thinner than Sherlock with more muscle around the arms. He has thick, dark hair, defined eyebrows, a slight tan, and a dazzling smile that is currently being directed at John.  
  
He springs out of the chair and holds out his hand. "You must be John," he says.  
  
John nods and clears his throat. "Yes. John Watson. And you are?"  
  
"Victor Trevor," he says. "A friend of Sherlock's from uni."  
  
"Ah," says John. "Sherlock's uni days. I'm afraid he's told me almost nothing about that."  
  
John chances a glance at Sherlock and catches the tail-end of an eyeroll.  
  
"Well, I know all about you," says Victor, drawing in John's gaze again. "I'm a huge fan of your blog. I'm one of those horrid people that check it every few days or so, hoping for an update."  
  
John has to break out in a full grin at that, because lord knew that the quickest way to his heart these days was complimenting his blog. Especially considering the amount of criticism he got from Sherlock about it.  
  
"I'll try to be more diligent about my posts then," says John.  
  
John smiles again and Victor bites his lip, tilting his head to one side.  
  
His eyes flick downwards, taking in John's stained rugby jersey.  
  
"I see you've been hard at it," he says.  
  
"One of John's more plebeian indulgences," says Sherlock. He has his fingers steepled and is eyeing John and Victor in that unblinking way that means he doesn’t like what he is seeing.  
  
"I don't know," says Victor. "I'm quite fond of a good tumble."  
  
John swallows heavily. He knew that tone. He'd used that tone. "Yes. Well." He makes for the stairs and says, "I'll go get changed and make us all some tea," because flattered as he is, this is not something he wants to get into in front of Sherlock.  
  
"I was rather hoping we could go out," says Victor. "What do you say?" He turns to Sherlock.  
  
"Not hungry," says Sherlock.  
  
"Of course not," says Victor. "John?"  
  
John almost stumbles at the sound of his name. "Hmm?"  
  
"Dinner? Not all of us can live off of brainwork and cigarettes."  
  
"I've actually quit smoking," says Sherlock. "Sixteen months."  
  
Victor barks out a harsh laugh. "That explains the added pounds."  
  
And that was a first. No one had ever made a dig at Sherlock's looks, not when John was present, and judging by the glare Sherlock is giving Victor, it was definitely a rare occurrence.  
  
John feels a little irked by the comment and for a second considers refusing Victor's invitation, but then he thinks of all the times Sherlock has put others down. Like Molly, or Sally, or even John--mocking John when he styled his hair in a different way or tried to grow a beard.  
  
"I think it suits you," says John, part amusement and part challenge, because, after the whole Irene debacle, he was hurting and sick of being ignored and overlooked. Part of him wanted Sherlock to hurt.  
  
To his credit, Sherlock barely flinches at John's remark, but his eyes deaden a little and his jaw clenches.  
  
"I'll just go shower then," John said to Victor. "Won't be long."  
  
Victor gives Sherlock a triumphant look and settles back into John's chair.

 

 

John showered quickly and put on jeans and his favourite checkered shirt. He thought about splashing on some cologne, but didn't want to seem like he was trying too hard. He also didn't want Sherlock commenting on it and picking apart his motives, which John wasn't sure of himself. Victor was a good enough looking chap and though John didn't usually go for blokes, he was lonely. He hadn't had sex in months and every girl he knew was all too aware of the Sherlock-sized attache that came with one John Watson.  
  
At the very least, he'd get to enjoy a full dinner, maybe even dessert, without being whisked off to a bloody crime scene.  
  
He leaps down the steps, two at a time, and is disappointed when Victor is nowhere in sight.  
  
"He took off then?" he asks Sherlock, trying to sound like he doesn’t care.

"Outside. Hailing a cab,” says Sherlock.  
  
John is surprised at how relieved he is at that. He had spent the shower anticipating a good night.  
  
"Victor uses people," says Sherlock, his voice flippant.  
  
John doesn’t think that’s true--he was a good enough judge of character, but even if it were true, he didn't care. Maybe he wanted to be used.  
  
"It's just dinner, Sherlock," he says. "And an opportunity to get some information on your school days." It would be a great addition to his blog - 'Sherlock Holmes: The Early Years.'  
  
John grins. Sherlock would hate that.  
  
"I just thought I'd warn you," says Sherlock. He pulls his violin from under his chair and begins plucking at it with his fingers. "I know how sensitive you can be about people's affections."  
  
John has to resist the urge to punch Sherlock. He finds himself doing that a lot lately, so he grabs his coat instead.  
  
"Don't wait up," he says and leaves to join Victor.  
  
  
  
  
Dinner is amazing. Victor takes John to an Indonesian restaurant that has the spiciest sambal he has ever had.  
  
Dinner with Sherlock was always hurried, even when Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of such transport. He ate in a ravenous way, slurping, barely chewing, as if he hadn't eaten in days (which was often the case).  
  
Dinner with Victor is much more indulgent. They order appetizers and drinks and don’t order their entrees till an hour passes. They spend the night talking and surprisingly Sherlock’s name doesn’t even come up once. It turns out that Victor is a chemistry professor and was asked to be the guest speaker at a symposium on organic chemistry in a week's time. He came to London early at the behest of one of the coordinators of the event who insisted that Victor stay with him in his estate.  
  
"You should see the place," says Victor. "It's huge. Every time I leave my room for a piss, I end up getting lost." He takes his napkin and presses it against his temple. The booth they are sitting in is snug and the food was very spicy.  
  
They had put the sambal sauce on everything, daring each other to put more and more, until John had downed three cold beers and asked for a glass of ice for his scorched tongue.  
  
His tongue burned, but it was a good burn that mirrored the jolt in his stomach when Victor stretched his leg out against his.  
  
John takes an ice cube and holds it against his tongue. He realizes this may not be the most decent gesture, but tears were practically coming down his eyes from the spiciness of the food.  
  
Victor is watching him, head tilted to one side. He has his thumb pressed against his lips and looks as if he fighting back the urge to bite it.  
  
He sits up abruptly and throws a hundred pounds onto the table.  
  
"Shall we?" he says, motioning towards the door.  
  
John blinks back his surprise and stands after trying, none to smoothly, put the ice back into the cup. He follows Victor out of the restaurant and out onto the sidewalk.  
  
The second they are outside, Victor drags John by the arm to the nearest alleyway and pushes him against a wall.  
  
The first thing John thinks as his back hits brick is that Sherlock will be able to deduce everything that happens after this moment. The second is, _Oh god, yes_.

 

 

 

It takes a few open-mouthed kisses and light groping for John to ask Victor back to the flat.  
  
"I'd ask you back to mine," says Victor, trailing his lips up the length of John's neck, "but I don't think Professor Farmean would take to kindly to that."  
  
They take a cab back to 221b and as they pull up to the flat, John is grateful that there's is no light coming from the window. They make their way up the stairs and John holds an arm out to stave off Victor as he calls out for Sherlock. When he gets no answer, he says, "Must be at Barts. They have some equipment that can't fit in here."  
  
"Lucky for us," says Victor. "You won't have to bite back your screams."  
  
When they get to John's room, Victor is quick about getting rid of John's clothes. He pulls off John's jeans in sharp tugs and when John has undone the buttons of his shirt, Victors wrangles it off of John and pushes him onto the bed.  
  
John feels delirious. He's warm, excessively so, and he's already sweating.  
  
Victor notices and he asks with a slight quirk of his lips, "Been awhile, has it?"  
  
John growls at that and pulls Victor down until he's flush against him. Victor's hard and John arches up into the length of him, a small moan leaving his throat as he does so. He revels in the feeling of being wanted, of being able to milk this reaction from someone.  
  
It's difficult being in the orbit of Sherlock Holmes. Whenever someone enters their circle, it's Sherlock they gravitate to while John's stuck on the sidelines taking notes.  
  
He shakes his head. He promised himself that he wouldn't think of Sherlock tonight, and with that he stills Victor's assault on his neck and whispers, "Fuck me."  
  
Victor sits back on his legs and lets his gaze drift from John's eyes down to his dampening pants. His gaze flicks back to John's and he leans over him to pillage the inside of John's mouth with his tongue. It leaves John panting and he chases the other man's mouth as he pulls back and tells John to turn over.  
  
John rolls onto his stomach and grabs the lubricant from his nightstand drawer. He tosses the tube back to Victor and assumes the man catches it since he hears the cap spin off and a squelching sound shortly after. He lifts himself up onto his knees, spreading his legs further apart while burying his face into his pillow. He smells some dried saliva on his pillow and wishes he had cleaned his sheets like he had planned to yesterday, but Sherlock had dragged him down to the yard to get evidence for a cold case. Three hours in the evidence room and they didn't even-  
  
John's mind goes blank as Victor unceremoniously thrusts one finger into him. He sees stars for a moment, but then Victor starts stroking and John finds himself thrusting his hips back into the movement.  
  
Victor slides in another finger and then another. John registers a mewling sound, it's pathetic and needy, and to his horror he realizes that it's coming from him.  
  
"Enough. Just do it. Please," he says. Sherlock may be above begging, but John isn't.  
  
Victor pulls out his fingers and John hears him pour out a generous amount of lubricant. It isn't long till Victor's cock is pressing against John's entrance and it takes all of John's willpower not to yell out, _fuck me, now_.  
  
He feels Victor's hands slide up his thighs and settle at his hips. The man's cock bobs enticingly against his hole until the grip on his hips tightens and the whole of Victor's cock slams inside of him.

John cries out. He takes a deep breath and tries to adjust to the feel of Victor inside of him before Victor pulls out and slams into him again. Victor maintains an unrelenting rhythm and pounds into him with such force that John's knees are propelled off the mattress with every thrust.  
  
He slows his assault and John moans at the change of pace.  
  
"You've been awfully quiet," says Victor pulling out slowly and sliding in again. "Let me hear that lovely tenor of yours."  
  
John can feel himself opening up, his insides giving way to accommodate Victor's cock. "Please," he says unable to think of anything but wanting to feel this filled all the time.  
  
"Do you wish _he_ could see you like this?" Victor asks and it takes John a moment to realize who he's talking about.  
  
The comment pulls him out of the moment and he tries to turn his head to look at Victor. The other man stops him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and lazily thrusting back into John.  
  
"Do you?" he asks.  
  
John lowers his head back down to the pillow, face first. His throat feels tight and he can't bring himself to speak. He nods his head instead.  
  
"Do you wish he could see you on all fours, leaking?" Victor slides a hand down the length of John's cock. He bears down on John, his chest pressing against John's back and brings his lips to John's ear.  
  
"See you begging?"  
  
John nods again and moans into his pillow. Victor's teeth rake against his neck. He can almost feel the other man's cock throbbing inside of him. John decides he's had enough and pivots his hips forward, letting the length of Victor slide out only to snap his hips back, engulfing himself around Victor's cock.  
  
Victor bites down on Johns's neck, hard, and reams into him. He spreads John's arse cheeks further apart and rides him. John feels a wave of shame fall over him as he pictures himself, back arched, arse in the air, legs spread as wide as they would comfortably stretch, but the feeling quickly passes as the tension in his belly mounts and he clenches around Victor.  
  
The other man comes with a shout that lasts as long as it takes to empty himself into John.  
  
John fucks himself on Victor's cock until it turns soft. He comes with a cry and finds himself not thinking about Sherlock at all.


	2. Chapter 2

When John wakes, he’s surprised to see that Victor is still there with him. He had fallen asleep naked with Victor curled up around him, his arm around John's waist and his face tucked into John's underarm.  
  
John tries to disentangle himself from Victor, but the other man strengthens his grip around him. He buries his nose into John's armpit and inhales.  
  
"God, you smell good," Victor says.  
  
John feels a familiar heat spread to his groin. He thinks about flipping Victor on to his back, tasting every inch of him, reveling in physical intimacy before it's gone again, but then he remembers how Sherlock had factored into last night's festivities.  
  
He feels the inklings of panic seize his chest and wonders if Victor would tell Sherlock what happened. He was, after all, Sherlock's friend first. But one look at Victor, who has a lazy smile on his lips and a hand poised to stroke John's hair, quells his fear.  
  
"Got a toothbrush I can borrow?" Victor asks.  
  
John nods. "It's the purple one," he says. "The electric is Sherlock's."  
  
Victor pulls away from John, but not before planting a brief kiss on his lips.  
  
"Be down in a few," he says and gives John a wink.  
  
  
  
  
John pulls on his pajama bottoms and robe and heads downstairs. A quick look around the flat tells him that Sherlock is still asleep in his room. He's thankful. The last thing he wants is for Sherlock to look at him and deduce last night's activities. John knows there is no escaping that moment, but he would like to postpone it for as long as possible. Preferably to when Victor has left.  
  
He trudges to the kitchen and fills the kettle. The flat is chilly and he pulls his robe tighter around him and leans into the heat coming from the stove. The water is just starting to boil when he feels strong arms encircle his waist. Victor voice hums into his neck and he nips at the skin just below John's ear. John leans back into the body and Victor's hands skirt their way from his stomach to John's hips.  
  
He pulls John's arse against him and says, "If I didn't have to get back, I'd fuck you right against this stove."  
  
John groans and tilts his head back, giving Victor better access to his neck.  
  
"I think Mrs. Hudson would have a thing or two to say about that," says a voice from the living room.  
  
It's Sherlock. His coat is undone and he looks like he's just come in from the cold. His cheeks are red and he is furiously texting with his ungloved hand.  
  
"And here I thought this was your and John's flat," says Victor. He still has his hands around John's hips and makes no move to pull himself away. If anything, he presses himself closer against John.  
  
John tries to diffuse any awkwardness by busying himself with the tea. "Sherlock, tea?" he asks.  
  
Sherlock makes a short humming noise that John takes as a yes.  
  
John looks back at Victor who nods just before he captures John's mouth in a fierce kiss.  
  
John feels his face heat and ducks his head. He's never been physically affectionate in front of Sherlock-- not with a woman, not with a man, and definitely not with one of Sherlock's Uni mates.  
  
He pulls out three mugs as Victor joins Sherlock in the living room.  
  
"Just getting in?" Victor asks Sherlock.  
  
"Molly texted me," says Sherlock. "They have a body that suffered from a botched attempt at self-administered liquid ventilation. The lungs were especially of interest. They were expanded to the point of bursting."  
  
To his credit, Victor looks fascinated and John takes that as his cue to relax. He hands the tea to both men, making sure to give Victor his cup first. He tunes out the rest of their conversation and settles onto the sofa to read the paper.  
  
John is thoroughly enjoying a pretty racy story about a pie-maker and a couple he had a tryst with in his establishment's kitchen when he realizes the quiet that has settled over the room. He looks up to see Victor eyeing him with amusement and Sherlock with exasperation.

"Enjoying the _Standard's_ sex column, John?" asks Sherlock.  
  
Victor’s gaze shifts from John to Sherlock to John and then back to Sherlock for an explanation.  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes and clears his throat. "Cheeks are red, breathing is elevated, repeatedly biting his lips, and he's been shifting in his seat for the past," he pauses to check his watch, "three and a half minutes."  
  
Victor is smirking now. John wishes the sofa would just open up and swallow him whole. Couldn’t a man enjoy a piece of literature in the comfort of his own home without being scrutinized all the time? He’s about to tell the men, both of them, to piss off, but the smirk slips off of Victor’s lips and turns into a genuine smile.  
  
"I was just asking if you'd like to view a panel I'm sitting in on later today. It'll be at Bart's. Informal. And we can have dinner after." says Victor.  
  
"We?" asks John.  
  
"Sherlock said he'd come," says Victor.  
  
John feels his eyebrows shoot up before he can stop them. "Really?"  
  
"It's incredibly important to support fellow alumni, John." Sherlock says.  
  
Victor lets out a deep laugh and they all agree to meet at Bart's later.  
  
  
  
  
The cab ride to Bart's is tense. Or at least John thinks it's tense. Sometimes he can't tell with Sherlock. It's the first time they've been alone together since Victor's arrived and John doesn't know where he and Sherlock stand.  
  
"Enjoy yourself last night?" asks Sherlock after minutes of silence. His voice is clipped and has the air of forced disinterest.  
  
John thinks about ignoring Sherlock, because really, it's none of his fucking business, but he decides that the truth might have the biggest impact here. "Quite a bit, actually."  
  
"He was certainly skilled enough back at school," says Sherlock. His eyes are riveted to his phone, but his head is tilted towards John. "Brought in a new conquest every few days."  
  
"If you're trying to put me off-"  
  
Sherlock cuts him off. "I'm simply providing you with all of the facts."  
  
"Well, I for one appreciate his skill," says John.  
  
He pretends not to see Sherlock's head snap towards him or feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him for the rest of the ride.  
  
  
  
  
They get to the panel late and slide into seats near the side entrance of the auditorium. There are six people on stage, all of them sitting at a long table with large nametags placed in front of them. Victor is on John's side of the auditorium, sitting at the end of the table. His nametag reads, Dr Victor Trevor. John briefly wonders if Sherlock ever regretted not getting his doctorate. He's certain that Sherlock is at least eligible for twenty just based on the experiments he runs at 221b, but Sherlock was never one to care for labels. He would probably scoff at the idea of someone saddling him with one.  
  
Twenty minutes in and John is bored. He doesn't care much for the subject and opts to ogle Victor instead. Victor’s wearing a white button down that does wonders with his tan, a skinny tie, and he's gesticulating with his hands in a way that John should definitely not find sexy. He's arguing with someone on the opposite end of the table, an older man who looks about fifteen years his senior. After another few minutes of dramatic gesturing, the older man gives up with a theatrical show of putting his hands up in surrender. Victor looks smug and John decides it's a good look on him. He reclines back in his chair and looks up at the audience. His eyes immediately find John and Victor gives him a slow, suggestive wink.  
  
John clears his throat and tries not to fidget. He can hear Sherlock shifting in the seat beside him and before he can turn to look at the other man, Sherlock leans over and says, "You're a passing fancy, John."  
  
"Yes. Thank you, Sherlock. I get it." He tries to wave Sherlock away, but the other man persists.  
  
"Made all the more appetizing by the hyper-masculinity inherent in your military background, Victor always did like to dominate the strong, and by your association with me."  
  
"Are you saying I only interest him because I interest you?" John tries to whisper, but he's certain it comes out more as a hiss.  
  
"I didn't say you interest me," says Sherlock.  
  
"Right. Okay," says John and leaves without looking back at Sherlock or Victor.

 

 

Victor finds John in an empty hallway thirty minutes later. John is sitting on a bench, nursing a cup of coffee.  
  
Victor sits next to him and places a hand on John's shoulder. "I saw you walk out," he says. "Everything okay?"  
  
John shakes his head. "Sherlock." He imagines he should be sick to death of saying the name, but he says it anyway. "We had a case awhile back, and things have been..." John struggles to find a word to describe how things have been. Tense? Difficult? Awkward? He settles on different. "It's been different."  
  
"The Irene Adler case?" asks Victor. John looks up at that. Had Sherlock told him? Had Sherlock been unloading his feelings to Victor without John knowing? Had he been waiting for someone with superior intellect to discuss his superior, complex emotions?  
  
"Your blog says a lot more than you think it does," says Victor by way of explanation.  
  
That doesn't sound good considering who could be reading his blog, but John decides to leave it. He's tired of thinking, of analyzing, of worrying. He just wants to put his emotions in a jar and deal with them later.  
  
He stands up and pulls at Victor's hand. "Come on," he says and makes his way to an abandoned classroom.  
  
He feels shaky. It may be the coffee, but it could also be the excess of emotion coursing through him. He decides to shut it down, to shut it all down and pushes Victor against the table at the front of the classroom.  
  
Victor braces himself against the table with one hand and brings the other to John's cheek.  
  
"John," he says. "Calm down." John presses his face into Victor's hand and lets him caress his cheek.  
  
"I am calm," John says and gets on his knees.

The classroom floor is hard against John's knees, but he doesn't care. He pulls at Victor's zipper and yanks down the other man's trousers, and then his pants.  
  
Victor places a placating hand on John's shoulder, gently pushing him back. "John," he says and his breathing already a little laboured, "you don't have to do this."  
  
John is just _sick to death_ of talking. He slides his hands up the length of Victor's thighs and lets them settle just below the man's hipbones. Victor is already half-hard and there are beads of cum coating the tip of his cock. John locks eyes with Victor and leans down to lick at it. Victor tastes salty and musky and John kisses his way down the side of Victor's cock until he reaches the base where he buries his nose and inhales.  
  
John has only done this once before back at Uni. He was more than a little drunk and the other bloke, a chemistry major funnily enough, was very persistent. He stroked John's face with the length of his cock for a good fifteen minutes before he finally parted John's lips and fucked his mouth. John couldn't remember much of that night, but he did remember the overwhelming feeling of want.  
  
Victor has a death-grip on the desk behind him and has shut his eyes and thrown back his head. He is biting his lips and looks like he is trying very hard not to cry out.  
  
John wants to change that. John figures Victor is the type of person who is always in control, a well-tempered, laid back bloke who doesn't let any one get a rise out him. It makes John want to make Victor scream.  
  
He opens his mouth wide and takes in as much of Victor as he can. He bobs his head back and forth, firmly pressing his tongue against the bottom of Victor's cock. John can feel Victor's veins as they slide back and forth across his lips. He moves his hands to cup Victor's arse and he kneads the flesh he finds there. John hollows his cheeks, and each time his mouth descends on Victor's cock, he swallows more and more of him. Victor has yet to place his hands on John and so John runs his hands down the cleft of Victor's arse and growls a bit.  
  
Victor’s hands latch onto John's shoulders and he curses, "Fuck, John."  
  
The sound is loud in the empty classroom, but so is their breathing and the sound of John sucking.  
  
John grabs Victor's hands and curls them around his hair. He hopes Victor gets the message because there's no way he's going to detach his lips from the man's cock.  
  
Victor takes the hint, and after a second of what John took as uncertainty where Victor loosened his grip, he fists his hands into John's hair and holds his head still.  
  
John settles back onto his hips and Victor crowds him, while partially pulling his cock out of John's mouth.  
  
John breathes deeply through his nose and groans again. Victor's hands tighten around his hair and he slowly slides his cock back into John's mouth. He does it again and again, taking care to go slow and hold John's head completely still.  
  
John lets his teeth slide against Victor's cock as it pulls out and is rewarded by a sharp hiss from the other man. Victor seems to toss out his reservations because the next time he pushes into John's mouth, he does it hard and fast, hitting the back of John's throat. The feeling is uncomfortable, but John has put up with a lot worse. And John wants this. Victor's fingers dig for purchase in John's hair again and again as he fucks John's mouth. He moves his hands down to John's cheeks and thrusts into John so forcefully that his balls lap at John's chin.  
  
Victor comes with a shout that tears through the room and John sucks him until he's completely spent. Victor falls to his knees and doesn't look like he can reciprocate the favor any time soon. John strokes himself to orgasm, taking care not to cum on Victor's clothes. The man would probably have to go out and shake a few hands in a minute.

 

 

When they make their way out to the hallway, Sherlock is waiting for them. He is examining the contents of a display case, his nose almost touching the glass partition, but he spins on his heels, coat fanning out around him, as soon as the classroom door slams shut. He waits for Victor and John to approach them and John sees his eyes flicker from John's knees to his mouth and to his hair. He says nothing to John, but his gaze coolly slides to Victor and he says, "They're asking for you."  
  
Victor curses and runs a hand through his hair. He smoothes down his shirt, the front of his trousers and asks, "Do I look presentable?"  
  
Sherlock snorts and John shoots him a glare. "Very much so," he says and adjusts Victor's collar.  
  
Victor lets out a deep breath and shakes out his hands. "I'll meet you both at the restaurant, then. Lord knows how long they'll keep me."  
  
John wants to yell out something crude, like "with that arse, they're likely to keep you forever," but Sherlock is standing right next to him and he always has an exaggerated eye roll or sigh on hand for when John flirts. It's a shame really, because John is good at flirting. People expect John to be as unassuming as his name and stature, and they're always surprised, quite pleasantly thank you very much, when John says something more than a little suggestive.  
  
He files that line away and watches Victor walk away. He hopes he'll have another opportunity to use it.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The restaurant is FANCY. The moment he sees the maitre d' with his white gloves, John feels underdressed.  
  
"I don't know why Victor bother's with such extravagance," Sherlock says. They have been there for twelve minutes and he has grimaced at everything, from the patrons to the lighting-fixtures. "He and Mycroft, two peas in a pod. They'll take showmanship and decadence over a stacked plate any day."  
  
"Says the man with a two-thousand dollar coat," says John.  
  
Sherlock bristles like a wet swan, and John has to bite back a laugh.  
  
"A coat is a good investment, John. It's a quality coat, and, you'll note, my only coat." Sherlock pours a generous amount of wine in his glass. "Unlike you who has a slew of jackets."  
  
John has three jackets and none of them cost over three hundred pounds. Still, thinking on Sherlock's wardrobe, the man really did have only a few pieces. Yes, they were pricey and a little too well-fitted (not that John had noticed), but he didn't have an abundance of suits, ties, and waistcoats like Mycroft appeared to.  
  
"My coat is not an extravagance. It's a practicality," Sherlock goes on.  
  
John has to smile at that. Sherlock really loved his coat. If Sherlock had to choose between saving John's life or saving his coat, well, John was pretty sure Sherlock would save him, but he would be hard pressed to do so. Then John remembers how quickly Sherlock had given his coat to Irene, Irene who's naked skin touched something that was as much a part of Sherlock as his hair and his phone, and the smile slides off his face. He holds up the menu. He'd rather not look at Sherlock right now. He’s surprised at how much the thought of Irene, the way she wiggled her way into Sherlock’s heart so quickly, bothers him. He feels guilty about his resentment towards the woman, especially with the secret of her death hanging on his shoulders. He shakes his head and tries not to think anymore on it. It’s been months since Irene and it would probably be best if everyone put the woman behind them.

There are seven items on the whole menu and none of them have the prices listed. John really hopes Sherlock has done a favor for someone at the establishment.  
  
"This is nothing like the place we went to yesterday," says John.  
  
"That's because Victor asked me what you liked," says Sherlock. "I told him how much you enjoy spicy food and that you'd been wanting to try Indonesian. He must have taken on the incredibly trying task of looking up reviews."  
  
John can't remember telling Sherlock about wanting to try Indonesian, but he supposes he must have. "Have the halibut," suggests Sherlock. "It has a fair amount of heat and it's braised with that wine you like so much."

John considers it. The halibut sounds good, and he hasn't had a good cut of fish in awhile. But... he doesn't want to smell of fish if Victor wants to have another go later on.  
  
"Um, no," says John. "I think I'll try the," he scours the menu and settles on the safest dish available. "I think I'll get the filet mignon."  
  
"What?" says Sherlock. "Why?"  
  
"What do you mean, 'why'? It's what I want."  
  
"Of all the meals we've had," says Sherlock, "I've always been able to predict what you'll order, with the exception of that meat pie, but how was I to know that it was your grandmother's favourite. Sentiment is the exception, and given the middle-class life you and those in your immediate circle lead, it's highly unlikely that fillet mignon holds any sentiment for you. Sooo, why filet mignon. You're not particularly a fan of beef."  
  
John's mind races to process what Sherlock has just said. "You- you predict my orders? Really, Sherlock?"  
  
"Of course I do!" says Sherlock, throwing his hands up, as if John is being stupid, again. As if it should've been plain as day.  
  
John startles as he feels a hand slide across his shoulder and settle just below his neck. "Am I missing something?" asks Victor.  
  
John looks to Sherlock and shakes his head. "Sherlock just being Sherlock."  
  
"And we wouldn't want it any other way," says Victor as he pulls out a chair. He angles his chair so that it's tilted towards Sherlock, but closer to John.  
  
When the waiter comes to take their orders, Victor doesn't bother looking at the menu and orders the pork tenderloin and Sherlock, very pointedly, orders the halibut.  
  
"That's interesting, John,' says Sherlock after John places his order. His voice is feigning nonchalance, but John can hear the determination behind it. "You're not typically a red-meat man."  
  
John hums in acknowledgement, but doesn't bother answering.  
  
"It's always chicken and fish with you," he continues.  
  
John has to work hard to keep himself from answering through clenched teeth. "Maybe I just feel like trying something different."  
  
"You've been trying a lot of different things of late," says Sherlock. "One would think you were acting out."  
  
"One would think it's none of your business," John snaps. He holds the other man's gaze until Sherlock looks away and tells Victor about the affair the couple sitting next to them are having. He doesn't talk to John for the rest of the night.

 

 

Sherlock eats half of his halibut before announcing he's off to Bart's. He leaves a handful of notes on the table and it isn't until the check has arrived that John and Victor realize that Sherlock has left enough cash to foot the bill for his own meal and one other. It's either an apology or a backhanded mark of ownership and John isn't bothered enough to determine which.  
  
When he and Victor get to 221b, John is glad that Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. There was a time when John would need to know where Sherlock was at all times, a time when he sat in his chair, uneasy, waiting for Sherlock to come home or text back. To Sherlock's credit, he always texted back; it was John who left messages unanswered, but that was because it took him an embarrassingly long time to type out a message and he wasn't attached to his phone like Sherlock was.  
  
They make their way up to John's room and this time it's John who lunges at Victor and captures the other man's lips with his own. John has to stand on his tip toes to deepen the kiss and he realizes with mild irritation that Victor is purposefully drawing himself up to his full height, making John work for it.  
  
A fond chuckle escapes Victor's throat and he leans down to tug at John's bottom lip with his teeth. "Sorry, love," Victor says against John's mouth, "I just like seeing you struggle."  
  
Fuck that, thinks John and he lays a hand on Victor's chest and pushes until Victor falls back onto the bed. Victor leans back on his elbows and watches John. The urgency that was present last night is still in the air, but Victor seems content to let John take the lead.  
  
John decides to put on a show. He strips off his clothes slowly, letting each garment slip to the ground and trailing his hands up his chest and down the length of his cock when he's completely bare. The lubricant is in his nightstand and he takes longer than necessary digging through the drawer to get it. He braces one hand on the stand and bends over, clenching his arse cheeks as he does so.  
  
When he hears the sharp growl he was angling for, he privately smirks in triumph and slams the drawer shut with the side of his hip. He's almost fully hard and before he makes his way back to Victor, he coats his hand with lubricant and gives himself a few, firm strokes that make his eyes flutter shut.  
  
There is the distinct sound of a buckle being undone quickly followed by a zipper, and John opens his eyes to find Victor's cock laid bare, lilting at the hem of his blouse.  
  
The sight of Victor's erect cock makes John's insides ache and he desperately wants the other man's length buried deep inside of him, the sooner the better.  
  
He moves to straddle the other man, but doesn't touch him. Instead, he applies more lubricant to his fingers and sets about preparing himself.  
  
The angle is awkward and John's arms aren't nearly long enough for him to him to hit the mark he's aiming for, but that's soon to be remedied when Victor tells him to turn around. John sits up on his knees and feels Victor press up behind him. John expects Victor to slide into him, lord knows he's ready, but Victor runs his cock up and down the length of John's cleft. Every time Victor's cock skims across John's hole, John finds himself keening.  
  
Victor has one hand braced against John's shoulder. "What do you want, John?" he asks.  
  
John tries to push back against Victor, seeking the hard press of Victor's dick, but Victor holds him at arms length.  
  
"I said, 'what do you want'?"  
  
John moans and doesn't even blush when he yells out, "Your cock. I want your cock."  
  
He hears Victor shift behind him and when he turns his head he finds Victor sitting back on his heels, gaze fixed on John's arse. He grips the base of his cock and looks up at John. "Then take it," he says.

John turns back around and swallows heavily. The position isn't one he's tried and he's not entirely certain his leg will be able to carry him for long, but that doesn't stop him from pushing backwards until Victor's cock is lined up against his entrance. He reaches behind him, hands grasping at Victor's waist for support and when he can't stand the emptiness any longer, he sinks himself down onto Victor's cock.  
  
Victor groans behind him and they stay like that for a while, John reveling in the way Victor fills him and both trying to catch their breath.  
  
Victor runs his hands up John's sides and crosses his arms against John's chest. He pulls John's upper half against him, giving John the leverage he needs. John clenches his thighs and rolls his hips forward, feeling the length of Victor leave him inch by inch, only to snap his arse back down on it again.  
  
The muscles in his legs are already protesting, but John can't care less as he bears down on Victor's cock and rides him. He tangles a hand into Victor's hair and runs the other down to his thigh and keeps it there.  
  
"Look at yourself, John, " Victor says.  
  
John keeps his eyes shut, because he thinks the request was rhetorical. He can't look at himself, how can he, when Victor says it again, "No, really. Look at yourself."  
  
John opens his eyes and finds himself looking at his reflection across the room. Their position at the foot of the bed provides them with a perfect view of John's mirror. He's about to accuse Victor of planning this, but John remembers that he was the one who pushed Victor onto the bed, onto that spot.  
  
John bites his lips and does, indeed, look at himself. He looks wanton. There is no other word for the way he looks with his chest puffed out, back arched, arse desperately trying to dig itself deeper into Victor's crotch.  
  
"If we both weren't in the public eye," says Victor, "I 'd have half a mind to tape this."  
  
John laughs, and god, it feels good to laugh while the tip of Victor's cock brushes against his prostate. He rolls his hips up and down again, hoping to hit that sweet spot. He keeps his eyes open, watches himself fuck himself. His own cock is bouncing up and down and goes ignored, but he finds it doesn't matter as orgasm ripples through him and he yells out, "Fuck, Victor! Yes, yes, yes."  
  
His limbs loosen and he goes boneless, but Victor is quick to pull John harder against him and pound into him. "You're such a slut for it, aren't you," Victor says against his ear.  
  
John's too blissed out to respond and just lets himself be hollowed out by the other man as he comes with a cry.  
  
John feels the cum trickle down his thighs and doesn't feel the need to clean it off. He lowers himself down onto his side, taking care not to let Victor pull out of him. He wants to fall asleep with that heat inside of him.

 

 

When John wakes up, his muscles are screaming. His thighs are sore and the pain in his shoulder makes him second-guess his decision to sleep on his side. That thought is curtailed when he realizes that Victor is still pressed up against him with his cock buried snugly inside of John.  
  
There is dried cum caking the back of his thighs and his hair is slightly greasy. The air carries an overwhelming smell of sweat and sex and John supposes he should open his window, air out the room. He should go find some aspirin, and take a long, hot shower, but he can't bring himself to move.  
  
Victor has an arm thrown around John's mid-section and is breathing lightly into his shoulder. John lets out a deep breath he didn't know he was holding. He misses this, the intimacy of the morning after. It's been awhile since he's woken up with someone and just allowed the heat of the other person seep into him. More often than not, it would be a flurry of texts from Sherlock that would wake John and force him to disentangle from his partner. There have been times, when John has gone down to a pub and taken home the first decent looking person that threw eyes at him, when those texts from Sherlock were a godsent. There's no quicker way of extricating oneself from the company of a one-night-stand than reading out the words, "There's been a murder."  
  
There are no texts now for which John is grateful. He idly wonders if Sherlock ever made it home last night. He never heard the front door shut, which is usually loud enough to be heard throughout the entire building, but given that John was more than a little distracted, it is entirely plausible that he simply missed Sherlock's return.  
  
The words "I want your cock" come rushing back to John and he feels his face heat at the thought of it. What if Sherlock had heard? He could picture the grimace that undoubtedly passed over Sherlock's face, the furrowing of the brows and exaggerated upturn of his upper lip. John has to chuckle at the image. Sherlock, and Mycroft too for that matter, could pull the most ridiculous faces when they weren't actively trying to conceal their emotions. Over time, the two brothers had become less concerned about guarding their expressions in John's company and John would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that the implied level of trust from those two extraordinary minds was somewhat flattering. This didn't mean that John thought they were geniuses through and through. For all their cleverness, there were some things that the Holmes' brothers were remarkably obtuse about.  
  
There's movement from behind him and the hand on John's stomach starts caressing the skin just below his navel.  
  
"Morning," says Victor. He presses a kiss against John's neck and curls up closer around him.  
  
John stretches back into him and returns the greeting. He realizes, with a pleasant jolt, that Victor's cock has slightly hardened inside of him. He clenches his arse cheeks and pulls his hips forward. "Been awake for long," he asks.  
  
Victor rakes his teeth across John's neck. "You were fidgeting," he says. "It was awfully distracting."  
  
The hand across John's stomach skirts lower and grips his cock. John arches into it and lets out a deep, guttural groan that starts in his diaphragm and envelops the entire room. John has always been vocal during sex. He considers it to be a courtesy and compliment to his lover, a real-time gauge of how the sex is going. He's had no complaints. If anything, the louder John gets, the more rigorous his partners get. It's only since he moved in with Sherlock that John has tried to taper his sexual vocalizings. He doesn't know why he bothers hiding things from Sherlock when the man seems to know everything about him anyway. John thinks it's to maintain a sense of decorum, no matter how much of a facade that notion is.

He raises one hand over his head in search of the lubricant he remembered tossing near his pillow last night. As his hand closes around the tube, Victor's hand closes around John's.  
  
"Already there, love," he says. John doesn't understand, not until Victor pulls out of John and he can hear the distinct sound of a cock being slicked up.  
  
John briefly feels guilty. He must have checked out. Again. But as Victor inches into him, he decides that the other man couldn't be too bothered about it.  
  
  
  
  
John doesn't even try to bite back his moan when he comes. He distantly notes that the sound he makes sounds like a wail as his voice fluctuates with the rhythm of Victor's thrusts.  
  
When they finish, Victor slides out of John and presses kisses down his neck, jaw, and then coaxes John's mouth open with his tongue. His tongue finds John's and as he changes tactics and sucks on his tongue, John thinks, _this man will fuck me as long as I want._ He's surprised to find how happy that makes him.  
  
Victor leaves to take a quick shower and John puts on his pajama bottoms and bathrobe. John supposes he could go downstairs just in his pajama bottoms alone, he and Sherlock enjoy a certain level of comfort with one another despite the recent tension, but he'd rather not make the night's (and morning's) activities so readily apparent to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock is in the living room, wide-awake and typing on his laptop. The windows are thrown open, which is unusual, and John wraps his robe tightly around him as he walks to the windows and shuts them.  
  
"Why the bloody hell are these open," he asks Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on his computer screen and says, "Had to do something to drown out your noises. Really, John. What would Mrs. Hudson say?"  
  
John's first impulse is to apologize, because if this was someone else, if his flatmate had been some regular bloke, he would've made an effort to be quiet. But because his flatmate was Sherlock Holmes, John had made the decision, subconscious or otherwise, to not keep quiet. John really doesn't want to give that thought too much consideration.  
  
"Mrs. Hudson is a grown woman who puts up with a hell of a lot more from the likes of you," he tells Sherlock. "I doubt she'd begrudge me a few cries of passion."  
  
Sherlock has nothing to say to that, or, if he does, chooses to keep it to himself.  
  
John starts to pour water in the kettle when Victor makes his way down. He tells John that he has a few meetings throughout the day, but asks to meet up at night. John asks Victor to a night in: movies and take-out. He's nervous when he's asking because he doesn't know if Victor's the night-in type, but Victor smiles brightly at the suggestion and says, "Sounds lovely. I'll bring the wine."  
  
The moment Victor leaves, Sherlock is on his feet. "Will Victor be living with us now," he asks in a petulant voice.  
  
It's times like these that John really appreciates Mycroft's plight. Sherlock can be extremely childish if things don't go his way and he can only imagine how thick Mycroft's skin must be to have spent a lifetime at the mercy of that wit and childlike attitude.  
  
He ignores Sherlock, as he finds himself doing more and more these days, and of course, because Sherlock is Sherlock, the other man refuses to let it go.  
  
"Should we get him a lilo, or is he content with falling asleep lodged inside your-"  
  
"Sherlock!" John yells.  
  
He looks at Sherlock in disbelief, but the other man refuses to meet his eyes. John's having none of that. He marches towards Sherlock and gets into the man's line of vision.  
  
"I don't know what your problem is," he says, "but I like Victor and he's staying, so whatever your hang-up is, get over it."  
  
John doesn't wait for an answer and he doesn't finish making his tea. He storms upstairs and stays there until he hears the front door slam shut.


	4. Chapter 4

John doesn't see Sherlock for the rest of the day. He goes to Tesco to get some milk, crisps, and a bottle of lubricant (he and Victor had used up most of John's supply already). The lady at the checkout stands gives him a knowing look when she scans his items and John feels his cheeks burn.  
  
The flat is a mess with newspapers, petri dishes, and a host of other items from Sherlock's many experiments. John does his best to clean around Sherlock's things, he doesn't want another lecture from Sherlock on how his work is an important contribution to the body of science, but when he comes across what looks suspiciously like skin samples beneath Sherlock's chair, he draws the line and places the items in a box.  
  
John doesn't really want to make a big deal out of it, but he doesn't want to scare Victor off. Victor makes him feel good and John wants to keep feeling good for as long as he can.  
  
There is the physical part of it, yes, which is good. Beyond good. Amazing. John hasn't come with such consistency and force since his college days, and Victor seems to have a locator beacon targeted on John's prostate judging by the speed and accuracy with which he finds it, but the man is also funny, easy going, and emotionally competent, which is incredibly refreshing after living with Sherlock.  
  
The flat could do with a good dusting, but his bed sheets need washing. Several days worth of semen and sweat have accumulated on the fabric and John is a little embarrassed that he left it that way for so long. He trudges upstairs and rolls up his sheets and pillow covers and takes them down to the utility room. He's surprised to find Mrs. Hudson there; he thought she would be out with Mrs. Turner as she usually was during the day. She is filing her nails, perched on a chair next to the washing machine.  
  
"Oh, hello dear," she says upon seeing John. "Spilled some tea on my skirt. Thought I'd give it a wash before lunch."  
  
John smiles at her and holds up his sheets. "I'm afraid I've been behind on my washing," he says.  
  
"Yes," she says, turning her gaze back to her nails. "You should be more diligent about that, what with that nice man spending so much time here. I'm sure he needs to have a lie-down once in awhile." Her voice is light, teasing and John is smart enough not to underestimate the deductive powers of his landlady.  
  
"That's enough from you," he says and puts his washing down.  
  
She looks back up at him and places a hand on his arm, "Oh, but he is quite dashing, isn't he? With that lovely, tanned skin of his and that smile. And those arms!" She fans herself with her other hand and John can't help the giggle that escapes his mouth.  
  
"Yes," he says, "he's quite, uh, fit. I guess."  
  
Mrs. Hudson raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him.  
  
"Okay, yes. He's gorgeous. And fit. And his arms are quite nice, if you must know."  
  
Mrs. Hudson nods appreciatively. "It's a wonder Sherlock isn't up the wall about it. Usually, when you have a new one in your life, he runs my ear off about it. But I suppose it's different with- Victor, is it? They were school friends, right, dear?"  
  
"Yes," says John. "Though friends may not be the right word." The way the two men acted around each other seemed more indicative of a school rivalry, and that's Sherlock all over. Though Sherlock is obviously the cleverer of the two, Victor is no idiot and John had a feeling that the man's easy-going nature and expertise in _other_ areas made this fact less apparent to those around them.  
  
"Which word would you use?"  
  
"When it comes to Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, I find that I often don't have the words."

She pats him on the cheek and says, "Isn't that all of us, dear."

 

 

Victor arrives a little early with a bottle of wine and a brilliant grin, and John doesn't care that it makes him feel like a teenager, stomach butterflies and all. He kisses him right there with the front door open, rests his hand on Victor's chest as he does so, and says in a voice deeper than usual, "Come in."  
  
Victor nips at his nose and says, "Don't mind if I do."  
  
He follows closely behind John as they make their way up to the flat, occasionally kneading John's arse every few steps.  
  
John has to tell him to stop once they get to the flat. "Sherlock's here," he whispers.  
  
"Is he?" Victor says. He steps around John and strides through the door.  
  
John is at his heels, anticipating having to put out a fire as Victor makes a beeline towards Sherlock.  
  
"It's nice of you to be here, Sherlock, on our night in." His stance is defensive. "Were you planning on chaperoning?"  
  
Sherlock is sitting in his chair, typing furiously on his laptop. When he looks up, he barely spares Victor a glance, but his eyes linger on John before they focus back onto the computer screen.  
  
"John hardly needs watching," he says.  
  
Victor slides an arm around John's waist and presses a succession of open-mouthed kisses up John's neck. "Oh, I wholeheartedly disagree with that."  
  
The air in the room suddenly feels very dense and John feels his face flush. He risks a quick glance at Sherlock who is slamming the keys of laptop a little too forcefully. John disentangles himself from Victor with the excuse of opening the wine. As he pours the wine, he watches Sherlock and Victor from the corner of his eye. The two seem to have adopted a competitive air about them. John can't put his finger on what exactly makes him think that, maybe it's the way Sherlock has his chin cocked up higher than usual, or the look of smug satisfaction slicked onto Victor's face. He knows they're both fighting for his attention, that much is clear, maybe even his affection, though John wouldn't bet on it. Not with either man.  
  
John tries not to think too much on it as he puts out the cartons of takeout and pops in _Jurassic Park_ into the DVD player.  
  
John has seen the film about twelve times, but he's found himself revisiting a lot of Jeff Goldblum's work of late. He supposes he has Sherlock to blame for that. Sherlock is less inclined to scoff at a film if Jeff Goldblum is in it. In fact, John could have sworn he heard Sherlock snort, and not in derision, at several of Goldblum's quips in _The Fly_. He can see the appeal for Sherlock, for someone like Goldblum, a method actor, someone unafraid to throw himself into his work headfirst. The fact that he's played a snarky genius more than once is probably a good selling point for Sherlock too.  
  
The Universal logo scrolls across the television screen and Sherlock still keeps his eyes on his laptop, but John notes the small quirk of the other man's lips when Goldblum delivers his dialogue.  
  
John and Victor have settled into the sofa and Victor has one arm slung around John's shoulder. It's around the scene where the group is getting a tour of the lab, Goldlum's character leaning into the dinosaur eggs with a look of absolute wonder, that Victor says, "He reminds me a bit of your dad, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock looks up at the screen. Goldblum is in the middle of his "life-finds-a-way" speech, and Sherlock nods slowly, almost absently.

It ruffles John's feathers a little, that Victor knows something about Sherlock that he doesn't. Something as big as his father. He looks between the screen, at Goldblum's adamant face, and Sherlock's uncharacteristically lax one, and he can almost see it. The hair. The intensity of the eyes. The sharp, feline quality to both men.  
  
He feels a tug on his shirt and turns to face Victor.  
  
"Alright?" he asks John. He nuzzles his nose into John's neck and audibly inhales. "Want to head up?"  
  
John can't very well say no. That he'd rather sit there and watch Sherlock's reactions to a film instead of having sex.  
  
So he nods his head, hoping it looks emphatic.  
  
"We're going up," Victor announces after an indiscreet squeeze of John's thigh. "Will you be okay on your own, Sherlock?"  
  
Film forgotten, Sherlock leaps out of his chair and grabs his violin. "Better than," he says and positions his bow.  
  
  
  
  
John is on his stomach lying on the edge of the bed. He has one foot planted on the ground and the other is bent up at the knee, being held up by Victor. They've been at it for ten minutes. Victor had wrestled John onto the bed and pinned him down, hissing the words, "I have spent all day thinking about your tight hole."  
  
In the past, John would have laughed at a line like that and told the person that not even porn is that corny, but when Victor says it, John can't pull his trousers off fast enough or spread his legs wide enough. And John doesn’t regret it one bit, not when Victor is pushing in all around him, stretching him in the most incredible way, and lavishing him with kisses and compliments.  
  
 _You have the most incredibly plump arse, John._  
  
It's like you were made to take cock.  
  
How Sherlock can function with you walking around the flat, I don't know.  
  
The last one makes John pause for a second, enough to notice that the lilt of Sherlock's violin has shifted from something soft and sweeping to something with a more insistent tempo. Victor must have noticed too, albeit subconsciously, because he is pushing into John in time with the music. John pictures Sherlock, his capable fingers curled around his bow, pressing down against the strings of his violin in determined, curt strokes.  
  
There was nothing more tantalizing than the sight of Sherlock playing his violin and John had marveled, was flattered really, at the number of times his flatmate chose to share such an intimate display with him. Because it was the height of intimacy for Sherlock, the way he let himself become enraptured with the music, laying himself open to the world as he fixated solely on his movements and the music.  
  
And it was something he had shared with John. More than once.  
  
The thought affects John more than it ever has, and that may be in good part because of the glorious heat that has been growing in his groin and the hot, demanding pressure of the flesh nestled in his arse.  
  
Before he can stop himself, before he can even think about it, he finds himself gripping the sheets and yelling out, in a clear and desperate voice, Sherlock's name.

 

 

The room goes quiet and Victor stills. John can almost hear him deciding what to do. The sound of Sherlock's violin continues to carry through the door and the floor and John is glad of that at least. Sherlock didn't hear him. _The violin must have drowned out my voice_ , he thinks. There was no doubt that Victor had heard him, though. After a moment of indecision, the hands around John's hips go lax and the persistent weight that was doing such a good job of making John feel whole removes itself.  
  
As soon as Victor pulls out, John knows he wont be feeling the press and heat of that cock again. He stays on his bed, face still buried into his pillow, and wonders what he could say. What on earth had made him yell out Sherlock's name? What excuse could he give Victor for saying it?  
  
Maybe Victor didn't mind. John pulls himself up to his knees and turns. No such luck. Victor has already pulled on his trousers and is buttoning his shirt. "Victor," says John, hoping to explain, but not sure how to.  
  
"Don't, John," says Victor. He pulls on his shoes and looks down at him. John is kneeling on the bed. He wonders if he should cover himself up; he doesn't want to be dumped while he's naked. Not that he and Victor are dating. He wasn't entirely sure what they are doing, but he is sure he doesn't want it to end.  
  
"I thought it was cute at first," says Victor. "Your obsession. I thought I could fuck it out of you, to be honest, but you're too far gone. Obviously. It's too bad, because you're a really good fuck, John."  
  
He pulls on his jacket and says, "Take care of yourself," before he walks out of the door.  
  
John spends twenty seconds wondering if he should follow, before grabbing his robe and running after the other man.  
  
It seems that Sherlock has gotten to him first. He's standing between Victor and the front door, holding his violin's bow against the other man in an accusatory manner.  
  
"I said, 'What did you do to him,'" says Sherlock as Victor tries, unsuccessfully, to push passed him.  
  
"You're insane," says Victor. He tries for the door's handle, but Sherlock smacks his hand with the side of his bow.  
  
John decides to step in before things get violent, which, judging by Victor's hunched shoulders and the solid stance of his legs, could be very soon.  
  
"Sherlock," he says, his voice and Sherlock's name hanging in the hall. "Let him go."  
  
Sherlock doesn't move, but his eyes lock with John's. He quickly takes in John's demeanor, his robe, and seems satisfied. He steps out of Victor's way, but stretches his arm out, presenting the door to Victor in a mocking gesture.  
  
Victor turns and faces the both of them. His face is set in a hard, unmoving way that John hasn't seen before. "You two are a piece of work," he says and walks out into the night.

He leaves the door open. Sherlock leaps towards it and slams it shut.  
  
"Well, thank God he's out of our lives." He starts making his way back up the stairs. "Tea, John?"  
  
John stays in the hallway and tugs his robe closer around him. Victor was gone. He was alone. Again. With Sherlock who just didn't get it.  
  
"John?" calls Sherlock from the top of the stairs. His voice isn't as assured as it was a second ago, but it is still expectant. As if he expects John to climb up after him and put on the kettle. As if John should be happy about Victor's departure. As if regular sex and human companionship were a distraction that John should grateful of getting rid of.  
  
"Just give me a moment, Sherlock," says John.  
  
"Oh, you can't be serious, John," says Sherlock. He hops down the stairs, two at a time, until he is standing a foot away from John.  
  
"Heartbroken over Victor Trevor? How utterly cliched. You've joined the ranks of college co-eds who sniveled about in front of his dormitory door."  
  
"I'm not- I'm not heartbroken," says John. "It was just nice to have someone around to be intimate with. I know you're above that, but not all of us have reached that level of robotism yet."  
  
Sherlock's foot glides across the hall floor as he inches towards John. He is attempting aloofness by tucking his hands into his back pockets and keeping his voice light. "What happened, then?"  
  
John looks up at Sherlock. His friend's eyes look earnest, but not for the reasons John would hope. Sherlock doesn't care about what John is feeling; what he cares about is the "how". He wants to know what sequence of events led to this moment and how to best cannibalize what information he gets to use it against John when occasion called for it. It was a habit of Sherlock's, determining John's weaknesses and exploiting them for his own personal gain.  
  
For a brief second, John thinks he is being unfair. Sherlock was sticking up for him just a minute ago, but before that line of thought can fully cement, John catches the flash of rapt curiosity that passes on Sherlock's face and thinks, _No_.  
  
He moves into Sherlock's space, tilting his face upwards so that his mouth is mere inches from the other man's.  
  
"You want to know what happened," he asks, keeping his voice low. "What always happens. You. You happened."  
  
Sherlock's brow bunches, but he stays silent. John presses on and brings his voice down to a whisper.  
  
"He was hard, pushing inside of me, and when I should've been screaming out his name, thanking him for the best fuck I'd had in years, I, Lord knows why, yelled out your name."  
  
He pulls away from Sherlock. The man looks shocked. His eyes are wide and they've fixed themselves onto a point behind John.  
  
"That's what happened," says John, and retires to his bedroom where his bed is, most likely, still warm.


	5. Chapter 5

The following days passed with Sherlock and John avoiding each other. When they did cross paths, Sherlock spoke in short, curt sentences, avoiding all eye contact while John blushed furiously. _I screamed your name,_ he had said. He and Sherlock had never talked about sex, but John, in all his infinite wisdom, had told Sherlock Holmes that he yelled out his name during sex. To say he was mortified would be an understatement.  
  
At the moment, John is sitting on his bed trying to read a book when he would rather be downstairs sitting on the sofa and pretending to ignore Sherlock's commentary on whatever is Sky1. As soon as he decides to give in and head down, there are three soft taps at his door.  
  
Sherlock. He pauses a moment to consider the hesitancy behind those knocks. Typically Sherlock would just barge in, his vocal rants preceding his actual physical body. It was odd. The number of times Sherlock had come into John's room uninvited, he never once walked in on John while he was naked or having a wank. John wondered if that said something about the predictability of when his libido acted up.  
  
He clears his throat and says, "Come in."  
  
Sherlock takes his time turning the doorknob and when he finally does materialize from behind the door, he stands there clutching his forearm, an uncharacteristically accurate portrait of awkwardness.  
  
A high-pitched giggle escapes John's lips at the state of the other man. He pushes himself up so that he's sitting at the edge of the bed and motions for Sherlock to sit next to him.  
  
"Get over here, you big oaf," he says.  
  
Sherlock bristles at that, like an affronted peacock, and slowly settles himself next to John.  
  
"You liked Victor," he says.  
  
"I did," says John. "Why is that so hard for you to believe?"  
  
Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh. "Because he's dull, John."  
  
"In what way is Victor Trevor dull?"  
  
Sherlock begins to count the ways off on his fingers. "Conventionally attractive. Sure of himself. Suave. Smart. Sexually competent. Sociable. Blah blah blah. Predictable."  
  
"Most people would be drawn to that," says John.  
  
"You're not most people," says Sherlock, not missing a beat. "Though that doesn't keep you from trying to convince yourself that you are."  
  
John barely registers Sherlock's second comment, because the first one is still ringing in his ears. It may very well be the nicest thing that Sherlock- no, the nicest thing that _anyone_ has ever sad to him.  
  
From the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock slowly lick his lips. His face looks contemplative and after letting out a sharp huff of breath, he raises a hand up to his shirt and reaches for his buttons.  
  
Five seconds pass before John realizes what Sherlock is doing. Five more seconds pass before John clasps his hand over Sherlock's and tells him to stop.  
  
"Why?" asks Sherlock his voice flippant. "You want sex. You need sex. I can provide it and we won't have to deal with any of your pesky suitors. I fail to see the problem."  
  
"You would," says John. Sherlock's hand is cold, and John wants nothing more than to bring it to his lips and cover it in warm, wet kisses. He had resigned himself to the fact that he wanted Sherlock--in any and every capacity the other man was willing to give himself. _Willing_ being the operative word.  
  
"Sherlock," says John. He pulls Sherlock's hand away from his shirt, but can't bring himself to let go of it. "Sherlock," he tries again, " I don't want to have sex with you."

"Patently untrue," says Sherlock. "What you said--the other day--you said-"  
  
"I know what I said," John all but yells. He's done enough blushing in the past few days, thank you very much, and he'd rather not start again.  
  
He takes a deep breath and adopts his this-is-not-something-normal-people-do voice that he so often dons when he needs to explain social conventions to Sherlock.  
  
"You can't have sex with someone just because you don't want them to have other relationships," he says.  
  
"Why. Not," asks Sherlock and hesitates before adding, "I don't find you entirely unpleasing."  
  
John finally loosens his grip from Sherlock's hand and throws his hands up in the air. "Oh. Well, let me just drop my trousers now. I've waited an entire lifetime for someone to find me not entirely unpleasing."  
  
"You're mocking me," says Sherlock.  
  
"Mocking you," says John nearing incredulity. " _Mocking you_? We've known each other how long now, and all I get is not entirely unpleasing. Go on then. Tell me. What about me passes the oh so very high bar of Sherlock Holmes?"  
  
He leans against his dresser, crosses his arms and looks expectantly at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock looks away from John, suddenly captivated by the pile of laundry in the corner of John's room. He clears his throat and says, "You're very compact."  
  
John snorts, but Sherlock continues.  
  
"It makes strangers trust you. You seem non-threatening to them. It's incredibly useful."  
  
"That's the clincher, isn't it?" asks John. "How I'm of use to you."  
  
Sherlock ignores him. "You're dependable. Solid. Capable. You may not be a genius, but I wouldn't want anyone else at my side when I'm out there." He says the last part with a nod of his head towards John's window. He is still looking around the room, eyes flicking over everything but John. He starts talking faster.  
  
"You have a great deal of strength, but you use it sparingly. Only when it's absolutely necessarily. Partly because you are an efficient man who doesn't like to expend effort when it is unnecessary. But it's also because you're a very modest man, John, even though you have cause not to be."  
  
And now, Sherlock does look at John. He gets up and starts walking towards him. John feels like he should move or uncross his arms or, for Christ's sake, blink, but he can do nothing but watch as Sherlock moves right into his personal space and inhales deeply at the crook of his neck.  
  
"You smell nice," says Sherlock.  
  
John nearly bucks at the sound of Sherlock's voice, the feel of Sherlock's breath so close to his ear.  
  
Sherlock takes another slow, long breath and drags his nose down the length of John's jaw, pausing to press his lips over John's adam's apple.  
  
"Your voice," he says into John's neck, "is pleasing." He opens his mouth and lavishes an open-mouthed kiss on John's neck. The feel of Sherlock's tongue and the heat, _Oh, God, that heat_ , sends a spike of pleasure through John's belly that settles heavily in his balls. His hands scramble behind him in search of the edge of the dresser. He digs his fingers into the hard wood, not trusting himself to lay a hand on Sherlock just yet.  
  
Sherlock keeps on talking. "It's amazing," he says and John has to think hard at what Sherlock is talking about. His voice. Right. Sherlock found it pleasing. "Especially when you're angry. It rumbles. It's a wonder, considering that high-pitched giggle you unabashedly grace the public with."  
  
"I thought you were supposed to be complementing me?" asks John all too aware that his voice has dropped a few octaves and secretly hoping it would make Sherlock's toes curl.  
  
"I am complementing you," says Sherlock. His voice is raspy and John marks that as a point for him.  
  
John slides his hands up across the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, stopping at the other man's pectorals. Sherlock's breath hitches and John thinks that's as good an indicator as any that Sherlock really wants this.  
  
He nods his head at the consulting detective and says, "Alright. Let's do this."

He pushes Sherlock back and begins pulling off his clothes. Sherlock watches quietly, silently cataloging every new piece of information as it becomes available. John throws a smile at him just before he ducks his head to pull off his socks. With the last of clothes divested, he lies back on his bed and shuts his eyes.  
  
The cards are in Sherlock's hands now. John has done enough in this relationship. If Sherlock wants this, if he truly wants this, he's going to have to do the work.  
  
John hears the rustle of fabric and, soon after, feels the bed dip near his waist. He can sense Sherlock's body hovering over him, almost feel the heat radiating off the other man, but he can't bring himself to open his eyes. Partly because he's scared. Maybe, after getting a good look at the wares, Sherlock wouldn't be interested anymore. But he also wanted to give Sherlock that chance to back out if he wanted to. He didn't want Sherlock to regret this, and, most of all, he didn't want Sherlock to resent him.  
  
As it turned out, John needn't have worried, not when an assured hand was firmly stroking the inside of his thigh.  
  
He opens his eyes and is graced by the sight of a very naked and very pale Sherlock. The man's skin is practically blinding and John is more than a little turned on by the fact that Sherlock is that color all over, not a tan line in sight. There were probably very few people who had seen Sherlock this exposed. John lets his gaze drift lower to a part of Sherlock he is certain even fewer people had seen, and Christ were they being deprived.  
  
Sherlock is beautiful. There is a soft curve to his cock, even when it's hard as it is now and the tip of it looks like it would fit perfectly against John's parted lips. John is pleased to note that Sherlock is bigger than Victor, in girth and length, and his arsehole involuntarily clenches at the thought of accommodating all of that hard flesh. John wants to sit up and take Sherlock into his mouth, coax every possible sound out of Sherlock. But he also wants Sherlock to move at his own speed.  
  
"I would like to penetrate you now," says Sherlock. "If you're done ogling, that is."  
  
John's eyebrows shoot upwards and he stumbles over his words. "Oh," he says. "Right. Um. Let me just get-"  
  
Sherlock unfurls his left hand and reveals a bottle of tube.  
  
John laughs. "Are you a magician now?" he jokes.  
  
But Sherlock doesn't even break a smile. He unscrews the cap off the lubricant, pours a handful into his palm, and tosses the tube to the side.  
  
He takes himself in hand first, bracing himself up with one hand and running the other, up and down in long, lazy strokes across his cock.  
  
John whimpers a little. He doesn't know if he's allowed to touch Sherlock yet, so he runs his hands down the length of his own thighs and spreads his legs open wider in an encouraging gesture to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock, not oblivious, smirks down at him and says, "Very well."  
  
He positions himself at John's entrance. "Is it necessary to prepare you?"  
  
"Not if you don't want to," says John, honestly not giving a fuck. He just wants Sherlock's dick.  
  
Sherlock grunts in response and with one, smooth thrust, buries himself to the hilt in John.  
  
John cries out. It stings, and his muscles are screaming, but he rides through the pain and manages to control his breathing.  
  
"What?" asks Sherlock. "What is it? Are you okay?"  
  
"Yes," John manages to gasp out. "It's just-" John can barely string together two words, not with that insistent heat buried deep inside him.  
  
"Spit it out," says Sherlock through clenched teeth. John didn't know why he was surprised. Of course Sherlock would be as impatient during sex as he was the rest of the time.  
  
"You're a lot bigger than Victor," says John, not really thinking that this is something Sherlock may not want to hear.

Sherlock grows quiet above him and John opens his eyes in fear of having ruined the moment. But Sherlock doesn't look upset. He is very still and looking down at John with astonishingly clear eyes and a frightening amount of possessiveness. John's breath catches at the sight of it and he is about to comment on it, but Sherlock wrenches John's hands and pins them above John's head. He brings his lips to John's ears and growls, "Good," before pulling out of John and then driving the length of him back in.  
  
John throws his head back and tries to yell out Sherlock's name, but his throat has gone dry. He digs his nails into the hands holding him down in a plea for more. Luckily, Sherlock gets the message and begins rocking in and out of John.  
  
John wrings his hands out of Sherlock's grip and braces them against Sherlock's shoulders. He moves in time with Sherlock's thrusts, rocking his lower body up so that he feels the full brunt of Sherlock's cock.  
  
"Good?" asks Sherlock, inbetween thrusts.  
  
"Yes," manages John. "Fuck yes. It's good. Your cock. Christ, Sherlock, your cock. I want to taste it. I want to feel it harden in my mouth. I want-"  
  
There was a host of things John wanted from Sherlock's cock, but speech escapes him as Sherlock fucks him harder and harder and strokes John's cock in tandem with his thrusts.  
  
"Three-hundred and forty five," Sherlock says between sharp huffs of breath.  
  
John is about to ask what the hell Sherlock is going on about, but the mounting heat in his cock crescents as Sherlock's cock pounds against his prostate. He comes with a strangled cry, bucking wildly and squeezing his arse muscles tightly.  
  
He hears Sherlock cry out soon after and he feels the warmth of Sherlock's seed coating his insides. He doesn't think he's been more happy than he is at this moment. If Sherlock had used a condom, John would have gotten on his hands and knees and lavished Sherlock's cock with kisses. Instead, he satisfies himself my running his fingers through Sherlock's hair and repeating the word "brilliant."  
  
"There are three-hundred and forty-five viable surfaces in our flat," says Sherlock pulling out of John too soon for John's liking.  
  
John's mind is clouded by the afterglow of the best orgasm of his life, but he has enough wit left to ask, "Viable for what?"  
  
"For supporting your weight as I take you," says Sherlock. He has pulled on his trousers, and is rummaging through John's closet as if sex has made the contents of John’s room fair game. "We should be able to test them over the course of four months."  
  
John nearly chokes on his own saliva. "Four months? Sherlock, we would have to have sex four times a day."  
  
"Three," says Sherlock, pulling out John's military fatigues somewhere from the recesses of John's closet. He holds them out at arms length and smirks.  
  
"I'm not as young as I used to be Sherlock," says John. "My libido's not what it used to be."  
  
"Nonsense," says Sherlock. He tosses the fatigues at John and says, "Now, put these on."  
  
The clothes hit John in the face and he gapes, openly, at the monster he's created.  
  
Sherlock approaches him and places his hand flat against John's chest. "That's an order, Captain."  
  
John finds it very hard not to oblige.


End file.
